


Firecracker

by coffeehousehaunt



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lost Girl
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Lost Girl Season 3, and some angst, kinda tragic, little bit of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehousehaunt/pseuds/coffeehousehaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"See, the hard pill to swallow here is, once I'm gone, your days are just plain numbered. There won't be a place in the world for you anymore." </p><p>An outsider's look at Tamsin in Season 3, in which Faith and Tamsin are fuck buddies hung up on other girls, a Slayer sees death coming for a Valkyrie, and Faith is always trying to go back and save herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firecracker

**Author's Note:**

> I have like 3 WIPs about these two, each of them completely different pieces with a completely different take on the fandom fusion. In this one, the Buffyverse and the Lost Girl 'verse are the same one, happening concurrently, by the rules laid out in both shows. Which is why this is only a one-shot. 
> 
> This was going to be for the Porn Battle and ended up being kind of a character study. Like most of my porn that didn't get written in time for the battle.

T comes at her hard: bared teeth, white knuckles, and the smell of whiskey. Just how Faith likes it. She doesn't do girls, usually, but T's not human, and the sex is out of this _world_. 

They don't really talk--well, sometimes they do. Whiskey and cigarettes tend to loosen the mouth, and they share both of those when they're in town and need a fix. 

They met in Europe, back when Faith was running with Angel. She's not really sure how it started; there was fighting, and then dancing, or maybe it was the other way around. And there was tequila. A _lot_ of tequila. And she was mad at Angel. Nadira's girls had just died. Or was it just before? Either way. T was blonde, and Faith was angry, drunk, and nostalgic. She was sore for the next week--even with Slayer healing--and never thought about it again, until she ended up in Toronto on Slayer business, courtesy of G-man and Kennedy. 

And who else should she run into. 

Tonight, T throws back the shots in front of her and snarls about how she doesn't want to talk, and this isn't a fucking relationship, she only comes when T calls, and Faith bristles a little--no one tells her what to fucking do, especially not when anything below the belt's involved. But then she realizes, actually, she's fine with that. She knows murderous when she sees it. And also, not human. Faith doesn't pry. 

Except maybe in the sense that she pries off T's clothes. Girl's got crazy weapons. Through the bottoms of her pockets, strapped to her back, up her sleeves. How she ever wears that many sharp objects without breaking the line of her jeans is a mystery to Faith. 

***

Faith also doesn't bottom. But when T's fucking her senseless from behind, she talks dirty, begs T to fuck her harder, calls her daddy. She's had practice, with the guys. Except this time--

T needs to be on top. She gets it. 

Maybe it's because her name's Bo. B. Faith almost laughed when T said it, but T would've well and truly killed her. Besides, she doesn't know B. So Faith curls her lipsticked mouth into a sneer and gives T her filthiest voice. 

T gushes about her in a way Faith gets--resentment and terror and a good layer of sarcasm plastered over the whistling feeling of falling. That's the deadly part, Faith knows, falling, and it's coming for all of 'em some day (girls like them); no one's there to catch them but themselves. By that point, though, all you want is to hit the ground. 

Not that Faith knows, or anything. 

Really, all T did was say her name. Her eyes flickered to her hands when she said it, and Faith thought, clear as the vodka, _Girl, you're fucked_. It's completely unrelated to the conversation, but all Faith needs to see is that look, and that spells it out--her mood, what she's here for, that damn whistling sound. 

It doesn't count as bottoming when _they're_ the whipped one. 

***

It's funny; she started hooking up with T to blow off steam. No one who plays for her team can let loose. T does, though; clears the floor with Faith's ass and does it with a relish that Faith should be more careful of, but can't seem to stay away from. She doesn't just play for another team, she plays another sport entirely. But Faith's sure, if they live long enough, that they'll end up fighting for opposite teams one day; she figures she might as well get it while she can. 

Faith's a sucker for the unrepentant types. They remind her of her. Hello, Evil Anonymous. 

So it's funny (it's not funny; her chest hurts so hard she wants to laugh) when she sees T, eyes like the mirror behind a bar, and she _knows_. She doesn't get soft--that's _never_ how it goes. If you want that story, watch a fucking movie. 

There's a fury that sets in when you know you're done for. Faith has a list of the shit she's done in the grip of it on her record, and they don't know the half of it. T's not doing any better; not that they talk enough for her to know specifics. 

Faith isn't sure if T's going to try to fuck her, or kill her. There's a twinge of fear in her gut at that, even though it gets her hotter than tequila, and then her fighting instinct kicks in. 

It's the only time she goes Slayer mode on T. Not that she ever tried to hide it. But it was mostly friendly scuffling before, and a lot of really gay wrestling. This is different; Faith recognizes this. She always knew T was dangerous, she just didn't realize how on her level she was. Maybe they didn't hook up completely randomly. 

T's back hits the ceiling hard enough to rattle it, but she somehow lands steady on her feet and backhands Faith so hard Faith tastes blood. What Faith gets for not drop-kicking her. Faith drops half a step back and snaps a kick at T's face--

And ends up flat on her back. She sweeps her ankle around at the back of T's knee, and T ends up on the floor, too. 

T lunges at her, and they're grappling, and Faith gets her legs around T's waist, getting a little more control, twists her hips hard and rolls her--

And then T's back on top, somehow, biting her mouth, and it's blood and teeth and blonde hair and green eyes, and Faith is _fucked_ , past tense. T's hands are tearing at her clothes, and Faith tangles a hand in her hair and pulls until T makes a sound that's animal enough that the next sweep of Faith's tongue is checking for fangs. And is she _sweating_ whiskey? 

T's definitely going first tonight. Faith's hips jerk up against her fingers and she clenches her thighs hard enough around T's waist that it might bruise. Good. 

There's no show; no fake begging. T makes her come, hard, and Faith doesn't wait even a second before she twists her hips again and rolls her, lifts her hips off T's hand, even though the shocks are still rolling through her. T makes her fight, but she's not trying to kill Faith anymore, and her nails drag hot lines over whatever bare skin she can reach when Faith yanks her jeans down over her hips. She likes it rough, usually, but this time, T digs at her shoulders and growls against her mouth until Faith pulls back and gives it to her hard enough that she's pretty sure a human would've broken. 

T just lifts her upper lip and rasps out a groan when she comes; that's her only outward reaction. But her cunt practically crushes Faith's hand. Half a second later, there's a hand pushing at Faith's chest, and Faith rolls out of the way as T surges to her feet and leaves without so much as a word. Faith takes a minute to catch her breath, hand still slick and aching. 

She looks at the door, and she's back in a video store in Sunnydale, back in the rain in L.A, back in England a few blocks from Giles' flat. She knows better than to offer T anything she doesn't ask for. And, really, what else has she got to offer besides her fists? That's all girls like her have. T's got plenty of that. 

There's a voice, one she still hears sometimes, waking or sleeping, no matter how many times she's tried to forget it. Hears it loud and clear: _There's no place in this world for you anymore._

_That darkness. You thought you could just touch it. But it swallowed you whole. So tell me--how'd you like it?_

She used to think she could change that. Not for herself, but maybe for someone else. Look how that turned out. 

Faith sucks on her broken lower lip and shakes her head, tries to ignore the tugging feeling in her chest, the urgency, because she knows the stakes here, knows them and can't do anything. She doesn't usually need a drink _after_ T comes by. 

_So I'm free?_

_Don't know about that. But the door's open._

She doesn't want to die, not anymore, hasn't for a long time--but she's so tired of being the only one still standing. 

***

She's supposed to meet T at a bar. But T never showed. Really, after their last time, she's surprised T hit her up at all. She's a little nervous what she's gonna find this time. 

Faith doesn't go looking out of sentiment. T plays fast and loose with times, and Faith can get laid anytime she wants, so it's whatever. But--shit, she doesn't know--it's a thing. Evil Anonymous. 

Then again, there's a chance this could get real awkward. And T doesn't have a lot of patience for people who can't take a hint. Though her hints tend to be... Well, about on this scale. Maybe this is a bad idea. 

She doesn't even know where to start--it's not like T ever talked about her world, but Faith knows superhuman and underground society when she sees it. Whoever they are, they've got a worse superiority complex about it than demons. 

But, she has a nose for this shit--something she learned doing t'ai chi and meditating in prison. It's what she used to do when she ran off, hunting, sometimes for weeks on end: wander and follow the energy, follow her gut. She might be calibrated for vamps, but she's still a hunter. 

She drives, and hits the city limit, and keeps driving, til the road turns to gravel. She pulls off when she feels like it's about the right time, gets out, and walks. It's late, now, and everything is alive with sound--crickets, wind, trees. A chill slips down her spine. It's pretty, but something sure as hell isn't right. Blame her time in Sunnydale, but in her experience, quiet and pastoral is usually where shit gets twisted. 

There's tracks slashing through the gravel, like someone came whipping through here earlier. Then she smells it: that mechanical smell, gasoline and oil and burnt plastic and all kinds of things that don't grow in dirt. The tracks get deeper, like whoever was driving slammed on the brakes, and then they veer off--

A cliff. 

Ah, shit. 

It's steep, but she grips on roots and rocks and slides down easily enough until she can jump and land safely. 

The wreck's cold and still, but the fluid on the rocks is still wet. No paint job, pretty much unmarked, GMC, KC lights--it's T's truck, alright. She's seen the bed of it often enough; though, that's ground-side, now. The cab's thoroughly crushed. Whoever's in there is long gone. Panic surges up her throat. She crouches to look in the cab, getting ready to flip the damn thing if she has to. 

But no one's inside. Faith isn't sure if she's relieved or even more creeped. There's no signs the cops have been here--no tape, no other tracks in or out--

Except, she notices, prints of some kind. From near the passenger side of the truck. It looks like a blood trail until she gets to the dirt and they resolve into paw prints. Big-ass paw prints. Werewolf? Nah, those are more wolf-man. This... Some kind of actual shape-shifter. Or a dog was driving. Which might explain why it went off the cliff. 

There's no sign of T anywhere. 

She searches til the sun comes up--not sure where the motivation came from; she's not exactly the attached type. 

The sun breaks over the horizon, and her resolve fails. Sure, anything's possible. Maybe T wasn't even in the truck--maybe that shape-shifter or whatever the fuck was the only one there. This isn't her place; she knows she's looking at some shit she shouldn't be messing with, and she's not Buffy or Angel, to make it her business just because she feels entitled to it. 

But, deep in her gut, she knows--T's world swallowed her whole. _There's no place in this world for a girl like you anymore._ She grabs under the crushed cab of the truck and heaves, yelling; it flips, cleanly, bounces as it settles onto the tires. The racket alone might attract attention, but if the crash itself didn't, this probably won't. They might find her fingerprints, whenever someone does find it, but really, Faith doesn't care. The sun comes up, and the world tightens another notch around her throat. 

_There's no place in this world for girls like you anymore._


End file.
